Weselton Above All
by Hydroxide
Summary: Behind every story is another one. Less palatable, perhaps, and sometimes less interesting. But not in this case. This is the story of a man and his meteoric rise to power. A story of loss and of triumph, of vengeance and of grief. A story that, though powerful and unbelievable, can be told in the short time it takes a man to put on his uniform and don his wig. One-shot.


**Hey everyone. Welcome to the other side of the story you know so well.**

**I wrote this in a single two-hour stretch, just riding on a flow of thought all the way to the end. This ties into my main fanfiction, "Answering The Blizzard," and takes place in the same universe. I wrote this as a stand-alone though, so it's not necessary to read "Answering The Blizzard" to understand this, and vice versa.**

**Some angst coming up; violence is implied.**

**Please enjoy.**

* * *

**Soundtrack: _Ezio's Family, _from the Assassin's Creed II soundtrack**

* * *

Leo buttoned on his uniform . _Another morning, another day in a new world._

He buttoned up his collar and fixed on the tabs, then moved on to his sleeves. By now, after numerous decades in his current office, the ritual had gotten almost mechanical. He liked to use the fifteen minutes of automated, thoughtless procedures (he timed it, almost to the second) to engage in some thinking.

The past few months hadn't been easy. A fiasco this big hadn't hit the duchy for more than a century, and that was back when all of Suebia was at war. It had taken every ounce of initiative, planning, and posturing, to get back on his feet and straighten things out.

_Think on your feet. Sit down, slow down, and bam—you're out of the game. _His father's words rang true even after all the years.

Then again, Leo's life hadn't exactly been easy to start with. The third son of an obscure noble in the small city of Hamelin, Leo learned the basics of trade and finance from his father, a merchant struggling to eke out his fortunes in the midst of a troubled economic climate. Von Reynard's Trading Post consisted of about a dozen staff occupying a dingy two-floor flat. The smell of coffee, grain, and hemp pervaded Leo's childhood memories. His father was a strict man and a merciless businessman—traits which Leo came to inherit.

_I miss you, Pap. _Leo smiled. He snapped on his cufflinks. If only his father could see him now—then again, the old man would probably scoff and say that he could have done better if only he was given the chance.

Leo had learned fast. By twelve years old he was doing the books, and by fifteen his father had already entrusted him with a new branch of the family business. Hamelin wasn't doing well. Prices soared and plummeted based on the unreliable supply of goods from cities and townships constantly at war with each other. Failure taught Leo the value of information. Knowing was not half the battle, it was the battle itself—and a businessman with insider knowledge of the market stood to make a killing; if he was ignorant, he instead would be the one 'killed.' He learned to be as ruthless and determined as his father, able to turn on a dime and change directions, using whatever means possible—including those outside the sanction of the law. From afar, Leo's father, mister von Reynard, watched his son's growth with interest and some quiet pride.

_Those were the days, _Leo thought. Young, ambitious, and with the world as his oyster. At eighteen he was engaged to a beautiful young woman, a fetching lass from down the street whose father happened to be the trading partner of the senior von Reynard. The moment he set eyes on Lieselotte, he knew that he wanted no other woman in this world or the next.

They were married at nineteen, and in all his life of trade and commerce, Leo had never felt more blessed or prosperous than the morning when, at age twenty-one, he found himself the father of a healthy young boy.

And then the rat plague struck.

* * *

"Liese, Liese!" Leo called out, a note of desperation in his voice. "_Lieselotte!_"

"Here, Leo!" His wife came running, her hair in a mess, her dress stained with dirt. "I—I can't find him outside! I can't find Stefan!"

Leo ran his fingers through his hair. "_No! NO!_" He threw open the windows. "_Stefan! Stefan von Reynard, where are you?_"

In the streets below, dozens of confused men and women milled about. Despairing voices matched Leo's plaintive wail, calling out names of boys and girls over and over.

Leo slammed his fist down on the windowsill. Behind him, Liese was sobbing quietly.

Then a call rang through the town square. "Mark? _Mark! You're here!_"

A woman dashed forward, arms spread out. Her embrace swallowed up the tiny figure of her son, and her relieved weeping could be heard all through the street. For a moment, all calls and cries ceased, and silence reigned.

"Mama?" The boy whispered. "Mama? Is that you?"

"Yes, Mark," came the sobbing reply. "It's me. Your mama."

"Mama, I tried to follow them, but I can't see. I couldn't see where they went." The boy reached out for his mother's face. All through the street, each man and woman hung on his every word. In the midst of his panic and despair, Leo realised that the boy was _blind_.

"Where they went?" There was a howl, and then a man rushed forward and grabbed the boy by his shoulders. "_Where did they go? Where are the children?"_

"Let go!" Mark's mother shrieked, gripping the bulky wrists of the despairing father, but the man held firm. "Let go of him!"

"_Where are they?_" The man roared, and the little boy flinched visibly before the threat he couldn't see but could hear very well.

Then, haltingly, the answer came as the boy began to cry.

"He—he took them—away. He said it was because—because we didn't pay him. For getting—for getting rid of the rats. He said—said we cheated him. So he started playing—playing on his pipe, and then all the kids started dancing and following him—step by step, step by step." By now, the square was quiet.

The boy wiped his eyes with a dirty, torn sleeve. "I wanted to follow, but—but I couldn't see. They got further and further—far away. I lost my way. I asked—I asked where they were going. And I heard little Annie say—she said, 'we're off to Darwood Cave!' And then—she wasn't there, and I was alone—and—"

There was a shriek and a thump, as a woman fell in a dead faint somewhere in the crowd. Annie's mother could take the shock no more.

All notions of class and status, of rich and of poor, were swept aside in the stampede that followed. Leo joined the massive, howling throng of desperate men and women in their heedless rush to Darwood Cave. He told Liese to stay put at home—he needed to know that at least one person in his family was still safe.

The smallest and only comfort that Leo could find was that he was right to tell Liese to stay home. At Darwood Cave, Leo looked right into the mouth of hell.

Hundreds of children, still and unmoving, lying on top of a massive carpet of rats. Rats, writhing and crawling over the limp bodies, their chitters filling the cavern and echoing amidst the screams and wails of the despairing parents whose worst nightmares had come true.

Leo remembered looking at the unholy mass of decay and disease, and spotting little Stefan. Next thing he knew, he had seized a scythe from someone near him. Leo plunged into the mass of rats like a man possessed. He hacked and cut, the dull blade sweeping across thousands and thousands of furry bodies, spilling warm blood like a fountain. The rats poured all around him, their stench overpowering him, their furry bodies and slick tails dragging across his hands and face and body, tearing through his clothes and ripping gashes open on his skin. He was enveloped in the grasp of an eldritch abomination from the abyss.

Leo screamed. And he cut. And cut. And cut.

He cut his way free. He remembered putting an arm around little Stefan. He remembered roaring so loudly that for a moment, his cry drowned out the chirps of ten-thousand crawling, writhing, filthy vermin. He remembered fighting his way out, hacking and slashing like a crazed farmer harvesting wheat from some demonic field.

He remembered Stefan's warm breath on his neck.

Of the hundred and thirty children that were lured into Darwood Cave, Stefan was one of the lucky thirty or so that survived. The mass funeral continued well into the week. The mourning lasted much longer.

* * *

Stefan didn't wake up for a week.

It was rat fever, the doctor said. It attacked the nerves and blood vessels, and later on the muscles and eyes. Sadly, the doctor informed Leo and Liese that time was not on their side—Stefan had been languishing in that cave for far too long. The febrile disease attacked quickly and swiftly, and while the doctor offered numerous potions and medicines to ease Stefan's pain, he sombrely informed that their only hope was that not too much of their son's body had already been destroyed.

The next Tuesday, Stefan woke up.

"Papa? Mama?"

Leo jerked awake, seizing Stefan's limp hand, bowing his head as if in prayer. Beside him, he heard Liese start to cry again, her hands gripping his shoulders as she rocked back and forth.

"Stefan?" Leo whispered. "Stefan? Son?"

"Papa? Where are you?"

"I'm here, son." Leo kissed his son's fingers, his eyes brimming with tears.

"Papa? It's dark."

"Stefan?"

"Papa, I can't see."

Stefan's eyes were milky white. Unseeing. Unblinking.

Leo and Liese hugged each other and wept.

* * *

The von Reynards moved out of Hamelin the next summer. Leo could not bear the city any longer. His father offered him a small fortune to get him settled down. Leo shook hands with the senior von Reynard for the last time. For the first time, Leo saw the hard old man break down and start to cry. The suffering of his only grandchild had broken his heart, and now his son was going away.

Leo settled down in a charming port town that overlooked the Northern sea, a duchy that retained its independence after the fracture of the Suebian league. He rebuilt his trading empire from scratch, from the same humble beginnings that his father had started on—a small shop-lot on a little street near the town square.

Liese died the next winter. The heartbreak had been too much for her.

Leo found himself alone in life, save for his son. He vowed to fight for his future. He threw himself into work with a passion that rivalled his love for Stefan, who was growing well in spite of his blindness.

The townspeople loved the newcomer. Leo made friends, gained influence. In half a decade, the von Reynards went on to become the most influential family in the duchy. In turn, Leo grew to love the town with a certain fierce loyalty. He cherished its hardworking citizens and their support for him. He found himself quickly rising through the town's upper echelons.

Annoyed, Leo found that he was becoming the target of some unwanted attention. He wasn't the most handsome fellow—Leo was rather short, yes, and his voice was somewhat nasal, although he made up for it with a certain erudition in the way he pronounced his words. But his features were altogether attractive, and most importantly he was now the richest person in the entire district.

Leo rebuffed every advance, turned down every invitation to dinner. He explained, over and over, the same thing to each young lady who sought to become Lady von Reynard: Lieselotte was queen over his heart, and she would reign there always until Leo joined her in the other world.

In the world of trade and commerce, Leo gained new skills. He knew how to create a persona that would be comical if it weren't so effective. His father was a large man and often used his size to intimidate; Leo, however, stood barely an inch above five feet.

So instead, Leo used his size to his advantage. He put on a snivelling, weasel-like tone, learned to enact mannerisms and tics that suggested a small-minded, greedy fellow that was timid and tiny. In truth, Leo's will was harder than iron, and his comical façade concealed a mind sharper than any of his adversaries. But he was good, _really _good, at getting people to underestimate him.

"Just another greedy little merchant, nothing to worry about," one trader scoffed to another, as if greed could be read like a book, as if a sneer and a clown-like rubbing of the palms was enough to tell if a person was greedy.

Leo smiled inwardly at the man's ignorance. _That's the reason why you're just a peddler, and I'm the richest man in a hundred miles._

All through the years, Leo spared Stefan no comfort. He grew up like a prince, never having to raise a finger in labour. Leo was determined to atone for the incomprehensible suffering of his childhood by turning Stefan's young years into scenes from paradise.

The rat plague of Hamelin had left one more indelible mark on Leo's life. A terrible resolve that burned and burned, never fading or diminishing. For the rest of his life, Leo would hate magic in all its form, and swear vengeance upon all who practised sorcery.

And he never forgot the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

Ten years passed.

* * *

"Bring him in." Leo gestured curtly.

The two guards nodded, and stepped out. A moment later, the door was kicked open and the guards reappeared. Between them was the limp figure of a man, held up roughly by the shoulders, his feet dragging on the floor. His face was bloody and bruised, his moustache ragged and untrimmed. Leo knew that face, for each night for the past fifteen years, he had dreamed of that face.

"Krauss. Bastian. Leave us." Leo nodded. The guards dropped the man, and the pathetic figure crashed to the floor like a marionette. There was no need for ropes or chains—Krauss and Bastian had broken both arms and both legs, snapped them like twigs.

"The Pied Piper of Hamelin." Leo stepped forward, looking into the man's eyes.

The man was muttering frantically, in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

"I'm sorry, what's that?" Leo leaned in closer. Cold fury was etched on every wrinkle on his face. The mask was gone. The jumpy, snivelling merchant was gone. This was a dangerous man, out for blood for his son and wife.

"I—I just wanted my money. Just wanted my money." The piper whimpered.

"Just wanted your money," Leo repeated.

"I didn't want—I just wanted my money. Just my money."

"So the children—they didn't matter?" Leo walked around him in a slow circle, and the piper's terrified eyes followed him jumpily.

"I didn't—the rats, they weren't supposed to—I thought I could just take them away and then you'll give me my money—"

"Ah, I see. Don't worry, my good fellow." Leo rubbed the man's ragged hair, and the piper recoiled from the touch. "You'll get your dues. I'm a businessman, you see. I always pay what is due."

He clapped his hands twice.

The two guards reappeared.

"Krauss. Bastian. This gentleman wishes to get his payment. Will you kindly make sure he is paid what is due him?" Leo's voice, smooth and silky, was as deadly as the venom of a snake.

The guards nodded in unison. Then grabbed the piper by both arms—he screamed and writhed in pain as the broken bones crumpled under the rude force.

Leo didn't give a backward glance as they dragged him from the chamber.

* * *

"Listen to me. Listen to me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"Shush, shush." Krauss whispered, shaking the man roughly. "None of that now. Be quiet."

The trio moved briskly down the dark corridor. The light from Bastian's torch was the only source of illumination.

Somewhere in the dark, there was a strange sound. Like a low hum.

"I didn't want any of this, I just wanted my money—"

He jumped suddenly as something large and heavy was shoved down the front of his shirt.

"Your payment, sir," Bastian informed him with mock courtesy. "Six hundred marks, all freshly minted. It's all yours."

"I—I don't want it—take it, take it all, please just—"

"Oh no," Krauss gasped sardonically, "no, no, that wouldn't do. His lordship's instructions were clear. You must be paid."

The hum was getting louder now. The men could hear it without straining their ears.

"Come on, take it—take the money." The man was crying now. Under him, a tiny puddle was forming as he lost control of his bladder. "Please, you are young—you must have a girl, yes? Get her something nice, please—a gift, from me—" He gripped Krauss' scarlet uniform desperately, like a drowning man grasping at straws.

Krauss appeared to sink into deep thought. "Come to think of it, I do have a girl." He stroked his muttonchop moustache thoughtfully.

Bastian nodded. "Really? What's her name?"

The piper looked like salvation had come for him. His tearful eyes shone with hope. "See? See! Take—take the money—what's her name? Tell her—"

"Her name was Rachel." Krauss smiled at the ragged, pathetic man he held by the arms.

"Rachel! Your girlfriend, yes? Get her something nice—a ring! A new dress!" The piper was babbling now. He was shaking all over. His eyes darted wildly.

"No, no, I'm afraid not." Krauss shook his head slowly. "I don't think Rachel will want any of those."

The man's eyes widened in horror. "Why—why won't—all girls will like—"

The hum had gotten loud enough for him to realise what it was. Now the sound filled the whole corridor, echoing off the walls, shrilling over and over.

Rats. Thousands and thousands of rats.

Krauss looked at the hapless piper. "You see, Rachel was only eight years old when she danced and danced into that cave. She must have been so happy. My little niece, she loved dancing, she did."

His smile was wide and humourless, his teeth bared like the maw of a wolf. The piper's nerve fled with his last hope.

"No, no, no!" He screamed. He writhed. He flailed. He begged.

Krauss and Bastian held on, their grips merciless, their strides unbroken. Ahead, the pit loomed.

Bastian held his torch over the chasm.

In the massive pit, in complete darkness, thousands and thousands of little black bodies crawled and chittered, writhing and clambering atop each other like a single monstrous organism. The hum was the collective noise of their snarls and hisses—they were hungry.

Krauss reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved the fabled relic. A simple wooden flute, adorned with magical runes and symbols. He showed it to his sobbing prisoner.

"This is it, isn't it? The magic flute?" Krauss waved it in the air. "See it, Bastian?"

"I see it." Bastian nodded. "Looks nice. I think you better return it."

Krauss shook the man roughly. "Hey, hey, look at me."

The piper looked up, his face racked with despair. His lips shuddered, his throat groaned, but no voice emerged. Fear had driven reason from his mind.

Underneath him, the chirping rose to a deafening chorus.

Deftly, with one hand, Krauss snapped the flute in two. The crack echoed in the hollow space, deep beneath the bowels of the castle.

"You're the Pied Piper." Krauss said.

He tossed the broken flute into the void.

"So play."

Krauss kicked.

The Pied Piper of Hamelin flew through the air, screaming like a banshee, singing his final song with the sound of his abject horror as he plunged thirty feet into absolute darkness.

Underneath, the feral mass of rats shrilled, answering his tune.

* * *

Leo jerked back to the present time. His body had completed the ritual even without the presence of his mind. Already he was dressed prim and proper, his gloves neatly strapped, his leggings smoothed out, his toupee secure on his head—_wouldn't want another embarrassing incident now._

He looked back at his dresser. Lieselotte's face smiled back at him from a tiny frame, the only portrait she ever sat for.

Stefan probably wouldn't be awake yet. Leo reminded himself to ask the servants to prepare breakfast in bed—Stefan once tried to get down the stairs himself to reach the dining hall. He had almost tripped. Leo shuddered. A servant had lost his job because of that near-fatal oversight.

He stepped forward from his dressing room into the antechamber. The House of Lords was convening. His presence was needed.

He recalled when, ten years ago, the town had grown so large and powerful under Leo's patronage that the council voted to secede from the Suebian league and claim independence. Almost unanimously, Leo had been voted the leader of this new order. Since that day, the duchy had gone from small unknown port to the powerhouse of the Suebian coastline.

_And I will make sure it grows stronger yet, _Leo vowed. _Above all._

_And especially above Arendelle._

For his hatred of the Snow Queen was more than a personal grudge, or a product of ignorance. It was hatred pure and distilled, motivated by the thought of his son's sightless eyes and his wife's simple grave on the countryside, a burning rage against magic and all who wielded it. They held power over their fellow man and cared not who they harmed.

Stefan.

Lieselotte.

Annie.

And all the nameless ones, whose number was so great that the grief of their bereaved parents was swallowed up by the tide of combined human suffering.

The Snow Queen and the Pied Piper, and all the rest. They were all the same.

He had destroyed the piper.

He would destroy her.

In time, he would destroy all the rest.

Leo strode into the hall. It was time for battle.

Dutifully, the footman announced his presence.

"_All rise for his lordship Leopold von Reynard, __**The Duke of Weselton**__!_"

* * *

**Well, that was a welcome distraction. I wanted to make the Duke a lot more sympathetic and human, so let me know if I succeeded. This is a one-shot for now; please let me know what you think! And if you've got the time, please do drop by and check out my fanfic "Answering The Blizzard," which is a continuation of the events of _Frozen _in the canon universe.**

**Till next time!**

**Sincerely,**

**A really long author's note.**


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